


Hypnoctober Day 15

by birdginia



Series: Hypnoctober 2018 [15]
Category: Umineko no Naku Koro ni | When the Seagulls Cry
Genre: Face-Fucking, Golden Fantasia, Human Furniture, M/M, Mind Control, Ryona, steppy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-19
Updated: 2018-10-19
Packaged: 2019-08-04 14:38:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16348580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birdginia/pseuds/birdginia
Summary: (prompt - forniphilia)The thing that’s looming over Kanon and exuding more bloodlust than he’s ever felt, even from Beatrice-sama, is most definitelynotBattler-sama, from his clothes to his body language to the way he’s just kicked Kanon square in the stomach, leaving him collapsed coughing on the ground.





	Hypnoctober Day 15

**Author's Note:**

> just a heads up, kanon's genitals aren't specified in this, mostly because I Couldn't Decide. enjoy!

The thing that’s looming over Kanon and exuding more bloodlust than he’s ever felt, even from Beatrice-sama, is most definitely _not_ Battler-sama, from his clothes to his body language to the way he’s just kicked Kanon square in the stomach, leaving him collapsed coughing on the ground.

But it’s one thing to know that intellectually, and another entirely to to quell the instinct to second-guess his behavior, to wonder how he deserved to be punished like this and pray he can make up for his indiscretion. So when he looks up from the ground, he must seem much less angry than he should under the circumstances, because the not-Battler laughs out loud.

“Aren’t you demure! Get beat to shit and then look at me like you got flicked in the forehead? Kinda boring, honestly.” He takes a few slow, easy steps towards Kanon, who still can’t bring himself to stand, and grabs him by the hair, his hat long discarded after a hard right hook to the face.

“Stand up, I’m not done yet,” he says, and Kanon feels the weight of every word sink into him, the absolute power of the Territory Lord commanding his body to rise. He may be a fake, but he still has all of Battler-sama’s status, has control over his domain, and that—that makes Kanon afraid.

“There we go!” He laughs, clapping a hand on Kanon’s shoulder, and then leans down to whisper directly into his ear. “You look much better this way. Pretty cute, actually.” And then Kanon’s legs are swept out from under him, and the false Battler throws him to the ground, knocking the wind out of him again.

“Stay there for a sec,” he says, and Kanon feels every muscle lock into place. A moment later, the impostor is sitting down in an ornate chair that probably wasn’t there before, and he gestures up with one hand. “Okay, hands and knees, now. You’ve tired me out, so give me something to put my feet up on.”

It’s strange, the feeling of his body moving on its own, rather than having to will it to do so when given an order. It’s humiliating, losing the only bit of control he usually has in the material world, but it’s also—soothing, almost. Knowing that he’ll be forced to complete the task perfectly, that there’s no margin for error, it’s almost enough to make him forget the sheer terror of the current situation.

It doesn’t last long, as the pain of the false Battler’s heels slamming down onto Kanon’s spine cuts through his thoughts. If it weren’t for the order keeping him still, his arms would give out and leave him sprawled on the ground.

“Ahh, that’s better!” the thing wearing Battler’s face says, stretching and yawning like a satisfied cat. “You really do make good furniture, after all!” He laughs, like he’s pleased with his own joke, and then kicks Kanon in the side—lightly, this time, not enough to knock him over, but enough for Kanon to feel the imprint of a shoe dig into his ribs.

The false Battler stays like that for a while, apparently satisfied with letting Kanon soak in the humiliation of being ordered around by someone who clearly has no right to do so, until he lands another kick to Kanon’s side, this time much harder, enough that Kanon has to scramble to get back into position. And then another one, this time enough to knock him down and make it difficult to breathe for a few moments.

“Aw, look, the damn thing’s wobbly.” The false Battler jams his heel hard into the back of Kanon’s neck, keeping him pinned to the ground. “I might just have to take it apart, if it’s this broken.”

Kanon’s mind runs through dozens of possibilities of what that could mean—visions of broken limbs, dismemberment, objects thrust through his chest, his back, his eyes—

But instead, he feels himself being roughly pulled upright, and then he’s kneeling between the fake’s spread legs, his face inches away from—

“Or maybe I can use this scrap for something else useful,” he says, and Kanon feels his own shaking hands reach out and begin undoing the dark slacks with a servant’s precision.

Kanon doesn’t have enough time to try to fight the Territory Lord’s hold on him, to plead for Beatrice-sama’s sake, for _Jessica_ —before his mouth is full, he’s choking on hard flesh and the scent of salt and musk, and his scalp burns from the false Battler’s grip on his hair as he pulls Kanon’s head back and forth, setting a brutal rhythm that leaves Kanon gagging, tears streaming down his face and saliva running down his chin. 

“Fuck, that’s nice,” Kanon hears over the blood roaring in his ears. “You make a better cocksleeve than a footstool, that’s for sure.” Kanon’s eyes widen as he feels the false Battler fill his throat entirely and stay there, unmoving, and Kanon is gagging, he can’t breathe, his vision starts to go black at the edges—

When Kanon regains consciousness, it’s to the feeling of liquid hitting his face, stinging his eyes when he tries to open them, and then he’s kicked in the chest and knocked back onto the ground, retching.

“Pretty good,” the false Battler drawls, standing to tower over Kanon’s prone form. “You think you deserve a reward?”

Kanon doesn’t answer, no orders working their magic on his body and no conscious decisions overriding his need to just lie there and breathe, but he cries out when the weight of one foot settles onto his groin.

“C’mon, show me how much you want this,” he says, and Kanon’s pained groan becomes an unbidden sigh, his hips moving on their own against the texture of the sole pressing against him. It _hurts_ —it’s crushing him in places he doesn’t want to think about, but his body keeps grinding against the stimulation and his throat is making horrifyingly pleased noises that he tries to bite his lip to stop.

“You really want it bad, huh?” Kanon keeps biting down until he tastes blood. “You like getting kicked around like this, don’t you? You live for this shit. Taking orders and more orders and pleasing anyone who’d be willing to touch something like you.”

“P-please—“ Kanon gasps, and he’s not sure what exactly he’s asking for—but it doesn’t matter, really, because any other sound he could have made is cut off by the pressure on his throat.

“What was that?” the false Battler snaps, any ease in his voice instantly gone. “Because to me it sounded like a piece of furniture pretending to have its own desires.”

Kanon tries to apologize on instinct, but he’s breathless, paralyzed—

“Maybe you can be better next time,” Kanon hears, before the pain in his throat becomes too intense to bear, and the last thing he feels is a sickening _crack_ before the world fades completely.

 _Next time_. Kanon can only hope that a miracle will keep next time from happening at all.

**Author's Note:**

> apparently i'm the first person to use the Black Battler tag??? step it up fandom.
> 
> my twitter is over at [@Slotheyyyyy](https://twitter.com/Slotheyyyyy). check out my very important thoughts and opinions on fucking, and @ me with any of yours!


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